Semper Fi
by dudeurfugly
Summary: Jeff Clarke is trapped with an injured homeless teen in a fiery building collapse. What starts as a near tragedy ends up reminding him that it only takes one shift for lives to change.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. **

**A/N: My Chicago Fire fic muse struck once again after a long hiatus. I have fallen in love with Jeff Clarke, and seeing as there's not much fic of him, I decided to go for it. This was inspired by the latest episode. Hope you enjoy it!**

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**Chapter 1**

It was a suspiciously calm shift until they were called to an abandoned building in a rough part of the city. Night had long since fallen and the orange flames leapt from the upper windows to touch the inky black sky, throwing a shimmering gold glow onto their trucks and faces. Jeff Clarke wasn't sure what the building had been used for, but from the looks of it, the structure had been left to its own devices for a while. The encroaching inferno would turn its already crumbling brick and shattered windows into ruin without much trouble. It would be a tough situation as far as safety was concerned, but they had to make sure the building was vacant.

Clarke's breath clouded in the chilly air. Over the ambient noise of the fire forcing its wrath upon the derelict structure, instructions were called out left and right, and the team of firefighters fell into their routine after the proper assessments had been made. Clarke heard Chief Boden's baritone echo across the empty lot as he retreated with his team through the entrance. Inside, smoke created a thick haze all around them and his breathing became loud in his ears beneath his mask.

"Careful, guys," Severide warned. "Watch your step. Let's get the place cleared as quickly as we can."

Clarke trailed behind Severide with Casey and Herrmann behind him and Mills rounding out their group. They broke off into different directions to clear the building more efficiently, their voices urgent and quick over their radios. Adrenaline propelled Clarke forward through the gunmetal gray smoke, following the maze of staircases and vast rooms. Herrmann and Mills passed him with their arms around a couple of half-conscious people battling smoke inhalation.

"Keep goin'!" he heard Herrmann shout. "We might have more of 'em in here."

He nodded and pressed on. It wasn't unheard of, not by a long shot, to find these vacated buildings overtaken by homeless squatters looking for a semi-stable roof over their heads.

The beam of his flashlight, white and nearly blinding, cut through the dark that seemed to want to suffocate him. Soon enough, the pitch blue-black of the landscape would be engulfed in a raging, warm light. Clarke could ignore the crackling of wood and brick, the tinny sound of glass splintering into dozens of pieces, and the hum of the flames in the levels above charring everything in their wake. He couldn't, however, stop himself from flinching every time the structure groaned in protest around him. It was a noise of defeat; a warning that something would give way. Clarke didn't want to be there to have a roof cave in on his head or fall through a weakened floor, swallowed up by fire and smoke.

He shoved those fleeting images aside to settle in the same far off corner where he'd buried those sudden bursts of claustrophobia, yet not far enough to reach everything he had stored since coming home from his last deployment.

"Fire department!" he yelled. "Call out!"

Nothing. He scanned the rooms he came across on his way to back down to the first level, the flashlight guiding him, breaking through the dense haze. Clarke got no response for his efforts, no matter how many times he repeated the commands. He was at the rear of the building, which looked like an entire world away from where they had originally set foot across the threshold.

The building shook. Clarke braced himself against a wall, listening to the violent storm of debris and soot that was probably raining down somewhere on the opposite side of where he was. Heat crept up the sides of his face; he felt beads of sweat drip down the small of his back beneath layers of gear. His breath resounded in a fast rhythm, his blood pounding in his ears.

"Everyone all right?" Severide asked over their headsets.

"Yeah," Clarke said, and was relieved when his fellow firefighters responded in variations of the affirmative.

"Get out as fast as you can," Boden's voice ordered. "You hear me in there? Don't need to be sticking around longer than you've got to. I don't trust this place."

"Got it, Chief," Casey said.

Clarke went down a hallway, stepping over a tipped over chair toward a door that led to the back stairwell. He shouted for anyone who might have been within earshot, but everything he passed was unoccupied. Elbowing open the door, Clarke backed into it and entered the bottom landing to a staircase that reached the upper levels of the building. There was another door on his right that led straight outside, to the cracked and pothole splattered pavement of an abandoned lot much like the one where their trucks had been parked.

In a few long strides, Clarke reached the bottom landing and stared up into the hollow darkness. His flashlight illuminated the stairs, bouncing off the walls.

"Fire department!" he hollered. "Call out if you can hear me!"

He was sure the building had already been cleared, that his relentless calls wouldn't find anyone. He waited a moment and inched closer, planting one foot on the last step.

"Fire department," Clarke repeated. "Anyone up there?"

Clarke had turned on his heel when he heard it: soft, almost inaudible against the backdrop of a collapsing building. He took two steps this time, his hand on one of the walls. For his tall, broad frame and all this gear, the staircase appeared narrower than it actually was.

"Hello? Call out!" He had to be absolutely sure.

The reply sounded strangled, yet louder, echoing down to him, "Up here!"

His gut twisted in an anxious knot, a fleeting sensation, before he ascended the stairs. The building around him trembled again and knocked him into the railing along the wall. While the movement was jarring, it didn't hurt—he registered everything but pain. The warmth seemed to intensify into stifling heat, the layer of dirt and sweat that coated his face was a familiar feeling that pulled at his skin. There were voices, gravelly and imperative in his headset, but they faded once Clarke's mind focused on getting to whoever had beckoned him.

"Hold on!" he called. "Don't move!"

It wasn't comforting to realize the stairs under his feet felt like they wouldn't support his weight longer than necessary once he was two flights up. A sharp turn followed, and he saw a shape at the top of the next landing. His flashlight found someone slumped into the corner. Clarke made quick work of the last staircase, trying to ignore the unsteady feeling the entire place was now consumed with.

Clarke sunk to his knees, the light throwing exaggerated shadows onto the face of a young girl. She had her head tilted back onto the exposed cement of the surface behind her. At first, Clarke couldn't tell if she was conscious. Her hands were limp at her sides, her eyes barely open, but he watched her chest rise and fall in a labored rhythm. A groaning, creaking sound forced Clarke to avert his gaze upward to the next staircase. It was packed in with fallen debris—huge chunks of concrete, wood, twisted metal forming a barricade from the upper levels. Beyond that, Clarke noticed the brilliant, flickering glow of the fire that would eventually overwhelm the space if they didn't put it out in time.

"All right." He turned his attention back to the girl, whom he assumed by estimation was somewhere in her teens.

She was covered in soot and concrete dust. A layer of it had settled into her brunette hair, onto the shoulders of the thin coat she wore. The flashlight's beam revealed rivulets of crimson down one side of her face. There was a tear in her coat sleeve, the edges stained dark. She squeezed her eyes shut against the glare of the light.

"All right," he repeated, as if to summon every ounce of strength and courage his body possessed. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? You're gonna be just fine. Can you tell me your name?"

"Ellie." Her voice was a whisper.

"Ellie," he said. "My name's Jeff Clarke. I need you to stay awake. Can you do that?"

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Good." He gave her a reassuring smile.

The look on her face, though, didn't do much to reassure him that she was all right. Her forehead glistened with sweat and her skin held a sickly pale complexion. Clarke knew head wounds bled more than anything, and looked worse than they were, but it worried him. He wasn't sure how much blood she'd lost before he had arrived.

It was then that Clarke remembered the voices on his headset. Boden sounded irate, and Severide was practically screaming at him.

"Clarke? _Clarke_, where the hell are you? Answer me!"

"I'm in the back stairwell," he replied, at last. "I've got a girl here, she's injured. I'm bringing her down."

"Hurry your ass up," Severide said. "You've got two minutes. _Two_, that's it."

He focused his attention, again, on the girl. "Ellie? You still with me?"

She nodded once more.

Clarke leaned over, ready to scoop her up into his arms. "There's just a few flights of stairs," he explained. "I'll carry you down. You hang on, and—"

"Can't," she said. It was above the whisper that had been her name. It sounded final, like she, for whatever reason, had accepted defeat.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise," Clarke said. "I won't let anything happen. But we have to move _right now_."

"I can't," she told him.

Her eyes opened and she stared at him fully for the first time before her gaze strayed. Clarke followed her line of vision down to her bloodstained fingers. In the uneven light, Clarke had assumed they'd been plastered in dirt. She had swept aside her coat. A blossoming stain on her shirt underneath outlined a deep wound on the lower left side of her abdomen. Clarke saw what kept her in place—a piece of rebar had lodged itself there, impaling her.

In an instant, the determination that had etched itself into Clarke's face vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread. It seemed to cancel out the invading heat of the fire, dousing him in an icy awareness.

When she looked back at him, the crystalline blue of her eyes had filled up with tears. She closed them and a droplet slid down her cheek, making a track in the dirt covering her face. She had the face of someone trying very hard to hold back a well-deserved sob, her lower lip shaking in dissent.

Clarke let out an exasperated sound. He lifted his head toward the ceiling to collect himself. There wasn't any fairness to be found in this situation. None at all. He shuddered to think how she had fallen into this mess, how long she had been trapped in this damn stairwell wondering if anyone would come.

Long enough for her to accept that she wasn't going to make it, apparently. Long enough for her to be showing signs of shock. He couldn't help the anger that crept up on him. If he had found her before she'd gotten to this point…

"I'm sorry," she said. Clarke searched her face, realizing she'd misread his reaction.

"No, no," he assured her. "No, you've got nothing to be sorry for." Clarke placed a gloved hand on top of both of hers, resting in her lap. He held her gaze calmly. "I _am_ going to get you out of here. You're fine. You'll be okay, I promise. Hang in there for me, that's all you have to do."

Clarke sat back on his knees. "Chief, we have a problem."

There was a pause. Obviously, it wasn't what Boden had wanted to hear. "This building's coming down all around you," he said. "Talk fast."

"We're three flights up on the landing. The girl here—Ellie—she's caught on a piece of rebar. I don't want to move her, she's—you've gotta send up Squad."

"Copy that," Boden said. "Hold on, both of you."

The voices of his fellow Squad members mingled with Boden's booming commands, while they formulated a strategy for the rescue and worked to get the fire contained. He heard pieces of it, but he was distracted by the horrible scraping and groaning that echoed above them. His heart gave a fearful lurch once he saw Ellie's eyes had closed. Clarke inched forward on his knees to rest in front of her. One of her hands had fallen to her side, the other settled near her hip, below the gaping rebar wound.

"Hey," Clarke said lightly. "Hey, Ellie, you still with me?" Her skin was pallid, her lips nearly devoid of color. She was breathing, but it was a struggle. Ellie coughed and her eyes fluttered open.

He smiled. "There you are." He took her hand in his and held it, his thumb brushing along her knuckles. "Eyes on me, okay? Everything's fine—we're gonna get out of here, get you right to the hospital. Nothing to be afraid of."

Ellie dipped her head in a slight nod, sniffling. She coughed, the movement enough to make her wince. Clarke couldn't help but grimace himself, regarding the angry-looking piece of metal that protruded from her lower abdomen. He didn't want to jostle her, but if they could get her coat off, he figured it might help shield the open wound from the layers of ash and dust drifting around them.

"Hurts," she said. It sounded like a half-sob.

"Caught yourself good," he told her. "You're tough, though, right? Got yourself this far…just a little bit longer. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I like to hear," Clarke answered. "You're doing really good, Ellie. Listen, if we get your coat off, it might help protect you from all the crap flying everywhere."

He thought he saw the corner of her lips upturn in a millisecond smirk.

"It's going to hurt, but I'll do it as quick as I can, all right? You'll push through it?"

"Mm-hmm," Ellie replied.

The relentless complaining of the foundation surrounding them became background noise, though Clarke still thought it sounded too ominous for his liking. The smoke in the stairwell was hazy, but not too thick, and he hoped the team outside was keeping the fire at bay. He worked at freeing Ellie's arm from the coat, then gently tore the fabric where it had already ripped from the rebar.

A tremor rose up from somewhere in the building, sending new plumes of soot and gritty filth down onto them. Immediately, Clarke braced his palms against the wall above Ellie's head, shielding her from anything that could have caused her more harm. He was wary of whatever lay in the staircase above, wondering how long they'd have until the tightly packed debris would finally give.

The crash from somewhere below, however, hadn't gone unnoticed by his ears—neither did the quiet gasp Ellie let out.

"It's okay," he assured her. "It's okay, you're fine. I've got you." Ellie's hand had closed around a fistful of his jacket, her knuckles stark white. The panic on her face made her look younger than she probably was.

Clarke's attention turned back to his headset. "Severide, what's your ETA? It's getting messy up here."

"Hang tight," Severide said. "Partial collapse…part of the ceiling…there's a lot of debris in our way. Got work our way through to get the stairs clear."

"Hurry your ass up," Clarke replied, echoing Severide's earlier command.

"Got it, man," Severide said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Hold on, we'll get to you."

"Almost out," Clarke told Ellie. "You hanging in there?"

Ellie's grasp on his jacket relaxed. She was still shaking. Her eyes were glassy, a few more tears clinging to her eyelashes.

"I…am," she said, her breathing ragged, "…if you are."

He laughed. "Deal."

Clarke could feel the sweat matting his hair beneath his helmet, rolling down his face under the mask. The smoke was beginning to dissipate, the wavering light above not so bright and close. The smell of charred ruin was heavy in the stairwell. The pungent odor mixed with the traces of blood from Ellie's wounds. It wasn't something Clarke was a stranger to, but he could allow himself to think about that at the moment.

He maneuvered the coat around her back and gingerly helped her other arm from the sleeve. Ellie cried out, her fingers tangled into the front of his jacket again to help her work through the pain.

"You did great," he said. "It'll be over before you know it. You all right?"

Ellie exhaled, a watery, thin sound. "Yes."

She let go of his jacket, her eyes trained on him while he sat back on his knees again. Ellie leaned her head back against the disintegrated concrete of the wall, and Clarke draped her coat across the front of her shoulders as closely as her wounds would allow. He knew the coat would help trap the heat in and stifle the shock.

"How old are you, Ellie?" Clarke asked, tucking the coat in place.

"Sixteen." She sounded drowsy. It worried him—he didn't want her to become complacent and lose consciousness. He could tell it was a battle for her to keep her eyes open.

"Sixteen," Clarke shook his head. For him, sixteen seemed like a long time ago. Another lifetime, way before he'd enlisted. "You'll bounce back from all this. Real quick. You'll be out of the hospital in no time."

A flicker of something crossed her expression and was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Clarke sat beside her on her right, his shoulder angled away from the staircase that had been barricaded in. He reached over and grabbed her hand, surprised when her grip was firm. Everything in the way her fingers latched onto his told him she was counting on his strength. He was terrified, but he didn't have time to let that sink in. He wouldn't allow it to. He was calm because she needed it—when everything around her was falling, Clarke knew Ellie was relying on his ability to remain steady.

She coughed, fighting to take even breaths. Clarke heard the anxiety there, the pain, and wished he could do more. He tugged off his mask and held it against Ellie's face, careful of the area still seeping crimson. There was no telling where exactly the blood was coming from, so he made sure to place it with gentle care.

"Hold on, Ellie," Clarke said. "Deep breaths…that's it. They're on their way, I promise you. Just hold on."

When she closed her eyes, Clarke became worried, but it was fleeting. Ellie spoke quietly. "I thought I'd made you up."

Clarke bowed his head, processing what she'd said. What she'd meant.

"I thought…when I heard you calling…it wasn't real," Ellie said. "I didn't…think anyone would find me…where I'd fallen."

"Don't worry about that now," he said. "You're getting out of here, that's all that matters."

"It's bad," Ellie said. She couldn't battle the weakness in her voice. Clarke felt her head loll to the side, against his shoulder. He glanced over and saw her eyes had closed. "Don't lie. …Please."

Clarke became suddenly aware once more of the awful clamor looming over them. Ellie was squeezing his hand—she heard it, too.

_Hey, Clarke, how much sand do you think we have left?_

He shut his eyes and took a breath.

Plenty. They had plenty of sand left.

"I don't like lying," Clarke said. "Let me worry about how bad it is. You've got to stay awake. Focus on that, nothing else. Keep talking…stay with me, Ellie. You're doing just fine."

His headset crackled. "How are you doing up there?" Severide asked.

Clarke looked at Ellie. She'd opened her eyes the tiniest bit.

"Hanging in," he said. "But it's not steady. There's a bunch of debris above us."

"Yeah, tell me about," Clarke heard Capp remark.

"Give us a few more minutes, we're almost there," Severide said.

"Got it," Clarke answered. He took another breath.

Ellie's head was still slumped into his shoulder, her fingers entwined with his tightly. Her dark hair was matted to the side of her face in blood that had begun to dry. The yellowish light from the flashlight between them amplified how pale she looked. Clarke heard her whimper every so often. He'd give anything to trade places with her; he'd rather be the one hooked on rebar instead. It wouldn't have done her much good, he figured, but at least she wouldn't have been in so much pain.

She moved the mask away from her face. "Tired," Ellie stated.

"I know," Clarke said. He removed his helmet and swiped the back of his arm across his forehead before replacing it. "Not much longer. We have a deal, remember? I'm holding you to it. You've got to stick with me."

"I'll try."

He had to strain to hear her answer. Her voice was small, thin, overtaken by her uneven breathing.

"Just keep talking to me," he said. "It'll make things easier. We're almost through it, I swear."

There was a pause. Clarke watched the dust and ash drift in the thinning haze around them. Somewhere in the pile of rubble beyond his shoulder, maybe higher up, wooden beams creaked like dry twigs in the wind. Stones of cement slid between cracks, taking shards of glass along with them. Even though the fire had been contained, the danger hadn't vanished. Clarke felt like he was waiting for a rubber band to snap.

"You…always been…a firefighter?" she asked.

"Not always. I was in the military."

"…Really? What branch?"

"Marines."

She shifted beside him and let out an agonized gasp for her effort. "Semper Fi."

Clarke squeezed her hand in reassurance, a wide smile on his lips. "That's right."

"Thank you," Ellie told him. "For your service."

He gave a sheepish nod.

Several moments of silence gathered between them. Clarke thought he heard voices in the distance, muffled by whatever held them back. He hoped it wasn't his mind playing tricks, just like Ellie thought his shouting had been a hallucination. Clarke's mouth was dry, thirst crawling its way up his throat. The gritty dirt plastered onto his skin was uncomfortable, but not anywhere near something he couldn't deal with. He'd suffered through worse.

"Ellie?"

"Still…here."

"How'd you end up in this place?" Clarke asked. He had to admit the question was at the back of his mind and he had his assumptions. It was unfair to make them until he had actual answers.

"Long story."

"Fair enough," Clarke said. He could tell he was intruding on a sensitive topic by the sound of her voice, so he didn't press the matter any further.

Ellie surprised him by speaking up. What she said hit him like a punch to the chest.

"I don't…have anyone. Out there."

There was heartbreak in her words. Her tone sounded final, again, as though the situation at hand allowed her to speak truthfully. Clarke didn't want her to think like that, to accept defeat. He didn't know what to say to her, exactly. He felt the corners of his eyes sting and was fairly certain it wasn't from the dust.

"There has to be—"

"No." Ellie coughed. "No one."

Her head felt heavier on his shoulder. "Don't give up on me," Clarke demanded.

"Harder to…stay awake."

"We're getting out of here, _I swear to you_—"

Something above them finally gave way.

As soon as Clarke heard the onslaught of debris, he threw his weight forward. He covered Ellie, pushing her into his side and using his back and shoulders as a barrier against the chunks of wood and misshapen cement that fell down the stairs toward their prone bodies. Clarke groaned as the solid rubble hit his back and bounced off his shoulders, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Somewhere under the shelter of his arms and torso, Ellie gave a strangled sob.

"It's okay, it's okay," he yelled. "You're all right—you're safe, I've got you. It's okay."

He hated to think of how much the movement and force of the debris jostled her wounds. Clarke waited for it to stop, hoping and praying it would, when his helmet skidded across the stairwell landing. He grunted as he felt something sharp nick the side of his face. He scrambled to protect his head from the stray bits of rubble still making their descent, huddling under his arms. His chin brushed against Ellie's head; her fingers, having fallen out of their hold laced with his, burrowed into his jacket.

It stopped, but he found himself partially buried. Clarke tried to shift, but it didn't do any good except for making the soreness in his back and shoulders more apparent. At least Ellie hadn't been hit with anything.

"Damn it."

Clarke realized he was being called, and not on his headset. Severide's voice, panicked, was coming from the around the corner of the stairwell.

"_Clarke_! Clarke, man, answer me! You okay?"

"Yeah," he panted. "Yeah…I took most of the hit."

"Are you hurt?"

Relief flooded through him once he saw beams of flashlights against the wall.

"Not bad."

"Hang on," Severide exhaled. "This building's a bitch."

Clarke smirked. "Ellie," he called.

He uncurled from his protective hold over her, and the smirk on his lips faded. Her eyes were closed, the hand that had been holding onto his jacket for dear life had gone limp.

"Oh no," he said, barely above a whisper. "No, no…Ellie, come on. Open your eyes. Ellie! Open your eyes for me, sweetheart, come on. Don't give up. We're almost out. Stay with me. _Ellie_!"

Clarke tugged off his gloves and pushed two fingers into her neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak. He felt a fire burning in the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

"We need EMT's up here right now!" Clarke shouted.

He cradled Ellie's head against his chest, his shoulder pressed into the wall and the scattered debris weighing down his lower back down to his hip and leg. Severide and Shay made it around the corner, Shay carting a backboard.

"She's unconscious," he told Shay. "I tried to keep her awake as long as I could but—" He didn't hide the tremble in his voice. Clarke was somewhat grateful Ellie couldn't see him losing his composure.

"You did fine, buddy," Severide assured. "Shay's going to take over. We'll get you guys outta here."

Mills and Capp approached Ellie with the saw, and in a matter of a couple minutes, she was free from the wall that kept her pinned. The rebar was still lodged, but Shay affirmed they didn't want to move it until they had her in the ER. Severide went to work shoving the debris off Clarke with Mills' help while Capp assisted Shay in getting Ellie onto the backboard. Clarke was aching and sore, but gratefully not seriously injured. The slight sting of a cut on his face was nothing but a minor distraction as he watched Shay stabilize Ellie and Severide helped him to his feet. Mills handed over his fallen helmet.

"Thanks," he said, replacing it.

"We have to move it," Shay ordered. "I don't like how weak her pulse is."

Clarke insisted on helping carry Ellie down the rutted, debris-laden staircases and none of them argued. They moved quickly, efficiently, to the back exit and out to the waiting ambulance. Shay didn't protest when Clarke hopped into the back of the ambulance with her, slamming the doors shut behind him. Rafferty took off toward the hospital, sirens blaring.

Ellie's condition appeared worse to him under the harsh light of the ambulance. He could see how much blood plastered her face, how colorless her skin was against her dark brown hair. Shay had slipped on an oxygen mask first thing and was now assessing her wounds. Clarke knew Ellie was in good care and couldn't focus much on what exactly Shay was doing. He clutched Ellie's hand like he had in the building, running his thumb over her knuckles, his head bowed. He didn't say a word the entire ride to Lakeshore, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess, a silent mantra for Ellie to be all right.

Clarke's hand didn't leave Ellie's until they carried her away to the ER.

He watched her disappear from his sight and stood in the middle of the entryway, feeling lost. Helpless.

The thought came to him, again, and his stomach twisted into knots:

_Hey, Clarke, how much sand do you think we have left?_

He let out a breath, one he'd been holding for a while. Clarke pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, blinking to stifle the wave of emotion that threatened to make itself visible on his face.

Clarke hoped with everything he had in him that the top of Ellie's hourglass was still obscured.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites! I really appreciate them! **

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**Chapter 2**

At this time of night, the hospital waiting room Clarke found himself in was quiet. After having his minor injuries attended to, Chief Boden allowed him to stay behind without question. Their shift was nearly over and Clarke knew he wouldn't have been able to keep his mind off Ellie if he was anywhere else but here. Hospitals usually set him on edge—he tended to associate them with unpleasant memories—but he tried not to dwell on that. For Ellie's sake, if not his own.

He sat forward with his elbows resting on top of his knees, his face concealed in his palms. Clarke could feel the grit of dried sweat and a layer of dirt covering his skin. He still smelled like fire and smoke, an odor that clung to his nose so often he barely gave it recognition. His jacket had been draped across the chair beside him, and momentarily, he felt bad about the cement dust and soot that collected on the seat cushions and drifted onto the linoleum. Somewhere above his head, a television droned on. Clarke was vaguely aware of the late night talk show playing but couldn't get himself to be distracted by it.

Clarke leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm over the back. His muscles fought him with every movement. He was beginning to feel the soreness in his back and shoulders and somewhere along his hip. The debris colliding into him felt worse than it had been when it happened; at that point, his focus had been on protecting Ellie from the onslaught. There hadn't been any time to register how much it hurt.

Now that he was relatively calm, Clarke wouldn't have minded a few painkillers. He'd refused them in his rush to get his own examination and treatment out of the way so he could track down a nurse to give him updates on Ellie. The nurse taking care of him hadn't been pleased with his nonchalant attitude, especially once she described the bruises blossoming across his shoulder. It would be a couple of weeks before the bruises started to fade. Work would be difficult, but he'd manage.

He wasn't sure, exactly, how much time had passed since a nurse from the ER told him Ellie had been taken up to surgery. Clarke didn't want to dwell on that, either. But nevertheless, he was left wondering: was it better or worse to be waiting this long, losing track of the minutes and hours? He considered what could mean for her. The sight of her pale face and bloodied fingertips toppled over him in a sudden rush, and quickly he pushed the thought away. She was so _young_. She had everything ahead of her yet. He couldn't imagine…

Yes, he could. Clarke wasn't a stranger to young lives lost before their time. Not only in war, but on the job. It happened less here than there, but the hurt was the same.

He didn't want Ellie to be a life he couldn't save.

"Any word yet?"

Herrmann ambled over to Clarke, two Styrofoam cups in his hands and a paper bag tucked underneath one arm. He held one out to Clarke, who took it with an appreciative nod.

"Nothing," he said.

Shaking his head, Herrmann sunk down into the chair next to him, settling his cup onto the table beside a haphazard stack of old magazines. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it over Clarke to where Clarke's jacket lay, stirring up a cloud of gray ash.

"You don't have to stay," Clarke said. He held the cup between his palms and watched the steam rise from the caramel-colored coffee. "Cindy's probably worried."

Herrmann waved him off. "Already called her," he answered. "She said she'd keep the kid in her thoughts, when I told her what was up. I didn't think it was right…you stickin' around by yourself."

"You're probably exhausted."

"Please." Herrmann scoffed. "Workin' two jobs _and_ bein' a dad…tired's my default setting. That's what coffee's for."

"Thank you."

"Don't worry about it."

Clarke took a sip of the coffee and heard the crinkling of an opened bag next to him. Herrmann dropped a sandwich wrapped in wax paper into his lap, followed by a bag of chips. Clarke settled his coffee cup onto the arm of his chair and started to unfold the paper.

"What do I owe you?"

"You kiddin' me?" Herrmann laughed. "After everything you've been through tonight, the least I can do is buy you crappy hospital food, Clarke."

Clarke allowed himself a fleeting smile. "Thanks, man."

"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it."

They ate mostly in silence, too preoccupied with stifling the hunger from the physical work they'd done. It may have been second-rate cuisine—nothing compared to whatever Mills or Dawson cooked for them at the house—but Clarke was grateful for the meal. He hadn't fully realized how hungry he was until he'd finished the sandwich and bag of chips in near record time.

He and Herrmann were sipping their coffee when Clarke could no longer get himself to ignore the thought that had been bothering him the most.

"I wish I'd gotten to her sooner," Clarke told him. "Maybe, if—"

"You can't do that to yourself," Herrmann interrupted, lowering the newspaper he'd managed to find among the magazines. "You keep askin' that question and it won't help. Trust me. All those bad calls…you can really beat yourself up thinkin' that. It's no use. Squad got her out of there, _you_ did your job. You _found_ her, that's what counts."

Clarke sighed. "She was going to give up."

"And she didn't." Herrmann folded the newspaper. "You gave her a chance she wouldn't of had otherwise. It's outta our hands now, but don't think you didn't make a difference. You did everything you could."

Clarke nodded. "Could use some good news."

Herrmann clapped him on the shoulder, lightly. Clarke held back his grimace as Herrmann's hand made contact with his bruises, knowing he hadn't meant any harm.

"Ah, kids are tough," he replied. "You'd be surprised." He bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly thoughtful. "Speakin' of…they get a hold of her family yet? I'd be goin' nuts if it was one of my kids."

"No," Clarke said. He dragged a hand through his hair. "I don't know. She might not…" He trailed off, taken back by the tremble in his jaw.

"What?"

"She might not have any," he answered. "The way she spoke, I…I don't want to make assumptions, but she might be homeless."

Herrmann exhaled. "Jeez."

He stared ahead, distant. "I hate to see that. It ain't right." Herrmann swiped his thumb across his chin. Clarke wondered if he was thinking about his own children. "I hope you're wrong, but with those squatters we helped outta that building, who knows? Maybe someone'll turn up. Lucky for her, she's got us for now, huh?"

"Yeah." Clarke nodded.

They fell into comfortable silence again, Herrmann absorbed in the paper. He glanced occasionally past whatever article he was reading to the talk show on the TV. Clarke, meanwhile, started to find the sound of it irritating. He felt restless. The beginnings of a tension headache worked its way from his neck upward. Clarke got to his feet and paced circles around the waiting room, looking into the hallway every time he heard footsteps.

"Mr. Clarke?"

There was a tall, balding man in glasses who stood in the threshold of the waiting room clad in blue scrubs. A young nurse was at his side, looking more awake than Clarke felt. He figured, of course, that the man had to be the surgeon who'd been in charge of treating Ellie. For several long moments, Clarke's heart pounded in his ears. He wiped a hand over his face, the other settling on his hip. It was his first and natural reaction to steel himself against the weight of bad news.

"You were brought in with Ellie?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I was."

The surgeon took a few steps into the room to approach him. Clarke felt a prickling behind his eyes and blinked to avoid his vision blurring. His stomach wrenched into knots and he thought, maybe, he might be sick.

_There's no more sand. _

"There were some complications while operating…"

Clarke closed his eyes for another long moment.

_There's no more sand…_

"She coded," he said, gently, in that practiced way doctors often crafted.

In any other instance, Clarke might have considered himself desensitized to that particular tone of voice, but right now, he hated it.

_There's no more sand…_

Clarke blinked when his vision clouded again, biting down into his bottom lip.

"We were able to revive her," the surgeon continued. "She's been admitted to intensive care. She's not out of the woods yet, but we're hopeful that she'll pull through and make a full recovery."

Somewhere behind him, Herrmann let out an audible breath. Clarke glanced at the floor to let a tear slip away. He brushed it off with a quick swipe of the side of his hand and met the surgeon's gaze.

"Thank you, sir," Clarke said. "Can I see her?"

"I'd rather she didn't have visitors until morning, but considering the circumstances, I think we can allow you a few minutes. I'll have Sara take you up."

Clarke reached out and shook his hand. "I appreciate it, sir, thank you."

The hallways were just as quiet and muted as the waiting room, though they encountered more foot traffic. An older woman in a white coat passing by gave Clarke and Herrmann a thankful nod. He never knew how to take compliments like that, especially when it just came along with the jobs he'd chosen to dedicate his life to, but he inclined his head all the same.

Navigating the hospital sent Clarke back on edge. The halls were identical and carried a nauseating clinical smell that managed to permeate the odor of smoke he was sure he carried with him. Clarke followed the nurse, Herrmann trailing behind them with their jackets draped over his arm. One elevator ride and another series of monotonous corridors later, the nurse directed the two of them to a small room with windowed walls and a matching door. A dim light illuminated the room.

"You go on," Herrmann said, his voice low. "I'll wait for ya out here."

The door had been left slightly ajar, so Clarke pushed it open and stepped inside. Herrmann disappeared somewhere down the hall, either to get away from the heavy atmosphere that stifled the ICU or to give Clarke space—he wasn't sure which. It seemed to him that the heaviness, the sterilized despair that was present throughout the floor was tangible in the cramped room.

Clarke couldn't stop the gasping exhale that escaped him as he approached her bedside. Ellie looked so unbearably fragile lying there among stark white linens, the dull yellow light shadowing in her profile. They'd bandaged the gash on her head and her dark hair was fanned out across the pillows. Her face held more color than it had before, which did something to assure him that she would pull through this all right. The breathing tube and sheer amount of machines and wires surrounding her, however, caused that wave of emotion to come roaring back. The machines' rhythmic beeps and hisses helping to monitor Ellie's vitals and keep her breathing until she could do it on her own were doing nothing to calm his worries.

He took Ellie's hand in his own and stood there watching over her. His thumb brushed across the back of her palm, like he had done while she had been awake and able to return his grip. A small part of him hoped she would do just that—open her eyes and hold onto his hand, assuring him and herself that she would be fine. Clarke didn't know how long he'd have until they sent him home and he would have to leave her in this place by herself.

There had been other cases, other rescues where he'd connected with whomever they saved for the brief time afterward where he'd seen them reunited with their loved ones and felt relieved at a job well done. Clarke figured this was why Ellie was different—why he'd been compelled to stay, for her. So far that he could tell, she didn't have anyone around to wait for her safe recovery. She didn't have someone pacing, crying, or holding onto her tight until she was out of those dark woods.

Except him. And Herrmann, and everyone at 51 who'd watched Ellie be pulled from that building and speed away in an ambulance.

Clarke dragged a chair closer to her bed and kept her hand in his. He stared at the screens displaying Ellie's vitals and hoped he'd be there when she woke up. He wanted to do everything in his power to be there, even if he had to ask Chief for a shift or two off. Clarke didn't want her to open her eyes to an empty room. Not after she'd been lying in that stairwell by herself.

And, if things went bad for whatever reason, Clarke wanted to be with her, too. He'd hold her hand no matter what. He'd be there, without question.

"You've got sand left," he whispered. "I know you do."

Clarke buried his face into his palm and finally let silent tears fall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. **

**A/N: Thank you again for your reviews, favorites, and alerts! They keep me motivated to write! I apologize for the delay in updating; I have a few writing projects going and I was sick last week. Enjoy this new chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Morning sunlight filtered through the windows in the locker room as Clarke finished packing up his bag after a long shift. He took a moment to stretch, content that the pain in his muscles had subsided somewhat over the past four days since the building fire. His bruises, however, did not fare any better. Severide had caught him grimacing in front of the mirror in the showers at the splotches of purple, green, and blue that made ugly patterns on his shoulders and back. He'd tossed Clarke a bottle of aspirin, proclaiming that he probably needed it more and Clarke assured him they looked much, much worse than they felt. Though there were moments where that didn't seem quite so true. He definitely had the wind knocked out of him for a few seconds during a car wreck rescue last shift. But, it wasn't anything he couldn't push through. Not by a long shot.

Clarke shouldered his bag and shuffled out of the locker room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He was halfway down the hall when Chief Boden poked his head out of the door of his office.

"Jeff," Boden called.

He'd been around for some time now to decipher whether Chief's tone carried friendly warmth or a barely-concealed warning. Clarke hadn't expected the latter; he hadn't done anything lately to fall from Chief's good graces.

He spun around on his heel. "Yeah, Chief?"

Boden took several long strides to reach him. "Don't want to keep you long," he answered. "Just wanted to make sure you're all right. Looks like you could use a good night's rest."

"Probably could, yeah." Clarke laughed.

He gave a small shrug. Truth was, the exhaustion had begun to hit him like a brick wall. And due to past experiences, he had an idea of how that almost literally felt. Between work and keeping vigil at Ellie's bedside whenever possible, he hadn't been home much. Clarke tried to keep Ellie out of his mind on calls—Severide, Capp, and Mills didn't need his mind to be drifting elsewhere—but whenever they were hanging around the house in between, he couldn't get himself to stop worrying. He was afraid he wouldn't be there when she woke up, afraid that maybe something would happen while he wasn't around.

He stole naps at the firehouse and his own place, but the second option was just that—a second option. Clarke hadn't been at home in the last couple days except for quick meals, even faster showers, and to exchange his clothes. He didn't mind it so much; the place was desolate and he'd rather spend his time around the people who had adopted him into their family.

Boden regarded him in that way he'd become acquainted with—that stern, yet undeniably paternal gaze.

"How's Ellie doing?" he asked. "You know we're all pulling for her."

"Better, Chief," Clarke said. "She's—I got a call from the hospital a little while ago. She hasn't woken up yet, but she's breathing on her own. They were able to take her off support okay. I'm gonna head over there this afternoon."

Boden smiled. "You're representing 51 well," he said. "I always like to see my firefighters going above and beyond the call." Boden clapped him on the arm. "Don't wear yourself too thin. I know…these past few months haven't been ideal for you. Take care of yourself, Jeff."

"Yes, sir. Will do."

Boden started back for his office, but paused in the middle of the hallway.

"If you find yourself needing a couple shifts off, all you have to do is ask. I'd rather have you at the top of your game than distracted. I think your fellow Squad members would agree. Let me know."

"Thanks, Chief."

Clarke made his way toward the common room, where Mills caught up to him, jogging to meet him in front of the doorway.

"Hey, I thought I missed you leaving," Mills said, an amiable lopsided grin on his face. He jabbed his thumb in general direction behind his shoulder. "There's a group of us going out for breakfast. Figured we'd wait up for you, see if you wanted to come."

"I appreciate the invite, I just…I got a call from the hospital. Ellie's doing better, she's been taken off support, so I thought—"

Mills' grin widened. "All the more reason to share a meal, then, right? Celebrate? Come on, man. Severide's buying, I don't think you wanna pass that up."

Clarke conceded, and a half hour later, he was sitting around a couple of pushed-together tables at a cozy restaurant alongside Mills, Severide, Capp, Shay, Mouch, and Otis. He sipped what he thought to be the best cup of coffee he'd had in his life—his second cup, in fact—but that may have been due to the amount of hospital-grade coffee he'd consumed lately. They were still devouring their meal, full plates of eggs cooked in different varieties shared among them, as well as huge portions of pancakes swimming in rich maple syrup. Smaller plates piled with bacon, sausage links, and hash browns were shoved between the mugs, stray utensils, and condiments.

Shay dumped ketchup onto her scrambled eggs, slapping the glass container bottom with the heel of her hand while she recounted a strange call she and Rafferty had taken. Otis looked perturbed as flecks of ketchup were tossed onto his toast and eggs Over Easy. Severide had presumably seen this happening and laughed quietly beside Clarke at Otis' glare more than Shay's ridiculous story.

"Can I help you with that?" Otis asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Nah, I'm good." Shay smacked another dollop of ketchup from the bottle and pushed it aside.

Otis gave a long-suffering sigh and looked down at his plate. "Yeah, of course."

She finished off her story, punctuating it with a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Severide shook his head, swallowing the last dregs of his coffee. He elbowed Clarke in the arm.

"So, how's Ellie?" he asked. "Mills said you got some good news this morning. I hope it means you can sleep. No offense, but your ass has been dragging lately."

Clarke looked sheepish. "Yeah, man, I'm sorry—didn't mean to let myself get so sidetracked, it's not like me."

"Nah, it's cool," Severide said. "Chief told me he offered you a shift or two off. You should take it. Rest up. Happens to the best of us, Clarke. Honestly. You can't play up the superhero bravado twenty-four seven. Sometimes…we all just need to know when to take a breath, you know?"

"I get it," Clarke replied, wearing a smirk. "I do."

"It's good, what you're doing," Severide told him. "I couldn't stop thinking about that kid for the rest of our shift that night. Calls like that, I hate 'em. She's really doing better?"

"It's what they said," he replied, nodding. He tapped his fingers against the ceramic mug. "She's breathing by herself, so that's the best news I've got so far. Keeping my fingers crossed that she'll wake up."

Mouch peered over his newspaper. "And the family…they're, what, still MIA?"

Clarke shrugged. "As far as I know. They can't match Ellie's ID anywhere. They won't have her last name 'til she's conscious."

Mouch shook his head, slowly, in disproval. "Cases like hers _really_ knock my faith in humanity down a peg."

"It's not like she chose to be homeless—if that's the case. People fall on hard times, it happens, unfortunately," Otis cut in. "Unless, of course, she's a delinquent teenage runaway. Which we have yet to rule out."

"She doesn't seem the type," Clarke said. "I talked to her, she told me she didn't have anyone."

Otis finally took a skeptical bite of his slightly ketchup-invaded toast and talked around his mouthful of butter-and-grape jelly slathered bread.

"Looks can be deceiving," he reminded. "Teenagers aren't exactly known for being truthful. Or accurate. Whatever her story is, I'm not gonna lie, I kind of want it for a podcast."

Shay groaned. "_Ugh_, get out of here, Otis. The girl's in a coma, for crying out loud. She almost _died_, and you're acting like she's fodder for some sleazy tabloid magazine."

"I am not." Otis pointed a finger to his chest, affronted. "It's a harrowing rescue story with a mysterious undercurrent. Who knows? What if there's a happy ending? People _love_ that. It's a good story, Shay."

Mouch looked at them over the frame of his glasses. "The fact remains, there's a girl in the hospital all by herself. That just…doesn't sit well with me."

"Ah, I wouldn't say she's completely alone," Mills said. "Clarke's been there every chance he's got. Severide said he visited the other day."

Capp grinned. "Herrmann talks about her like he's already put in adoption papers."

"I do not think they have room for any more children," Mouch said, though his expression was one of fondness.

"She's got us, too," Severide agreed. He looked at Clarke. "Until they get this whole thing sorted out, she's not alone. I don't care if we have to smuggle her into the damn firehouse after she's all healed up. Ellie's not gonna be on her own. She's been through something that's scary as hell—something some of us have gotten out of, one way or another. We'll make sure she's okay. It's what we do."

"Damn straight," Clarke answered. His voice grew quiet. "It's, uh…it's been good, actually, for me. After the whole Lisa thing, it seems like…aside from the job, looking after Ellie has kept me grounded. I was in a bad place for a bit, but it's nice to have a purpose."

Severide clapped him on the shoulder. He nodded, understanding. "We've got your back." He smiled. "So, what can we do for Ellie?"

"I thought the hiding-her-in-the-firehouse plan was particularly inspired," Shay said. "Ooh, wait. Is group adoption a thing? Because I'm totally down for that. We could, like, all adopt her and share custody."

"Now _there's_ a story—"

"_Otis_," Mouch interrupted.

"'Local Firehouse Adopts Rescued Teenager'. C'mon, it'd be great. Everybody wins."

"Whoa, hold on," Severide said. He put up a hand. "We don't even know if she doesn't have parents. I was thinking short-term. Tomorrow…later this week…you know, something that's possible and not half-crazy."

"Her hospital room's pretty bleak," Clarke offered. "It gets to be a bit much after a while. Could use some cheering up."

Shay slapped her hand down onto the tabletop. The utensils and mugs clattered. "Consider it done."

* * *

When Clarke ducked into Ellie's room in the ICU, he found it occupied by a visitor. He had gone home for a short time after breakfast to take a nap and was grateful to feel well-rested compared to this morning. It didn't cross his mind that someone would already be there sitting next to Ellie, but the sight wasn't wholly unexpected. Not since Severide and Chief Boden and Herrmann had made their brief, yet thoughtful visits. He always came to the hospital with the realization that one day, maybe, her parents or a family member would show up to claim responsibility for her. Once those thoughts crept in, he wasn't sure at this point how to gauge his reaction. It tended to range anywhere from relief to anger to bittersweet.

Clarke paused in the threshold, recognition passing over his face. The breath he let go of caught him off guard more than he would rightly acknowledge. He didn't know what that meant. Clarke brushed away the fleeting thoughts before he had time to properly assess them.

Cindy Herrmann turned her head toward his approaching footsteps and smiled broadly. Clarke had liked her magnetic, bright personality from the moment he'd been introduced to her and her houseful of boys. Since his divorce from Lisa and moving into a new place, he'd attended quite a few Herrmann family dinners and almost regularly had a dish of Cindy's homemade meals in his fridge. Clarke couldn't keep track of how many debts he owed the Herrmanns, but he was thankful for their presence in his life on a near daily basis.

"Jeff." She grinned, standing to pull him into an embrace. "It's good to see you."

"You, too," he said. "You been here long?"

"Chris is wrangling the kids, so I thought I'd stop by," she explained. "He's been talking about her a lot, giving me updates. When I got here, the nurses thought I might be her mother…or aunt, or something."

She glanced at Ellie's unconscious form, nestled beneath the blankets, cocooned by obtrusive medical equipment. She wore the expression only a concerned mother would truly understand.

"Believe me, if we didn't have a full house already, I would," Cindy confided.

Clarke nodded. He crossed the small room to admire the construction-paper cards arranged on the table. They were covered in scribbles, crayon drawings, and shaky child penmanship.

Cindy laughed. "The boys made her get well cards. It wasn't even my idea…they seemed enthusiastic."

"She'll appreciate them," Clarke answered.

"If you need anything, you let me know," Cindy reminded him. "Keep us posted on her condition. I'd like to see her when she wakes up. And…if you need a break, I can always get a sitter for the kids and stay with her. It's not a problem."

Before Clarke could give her his thanks, she interrupted herself, digging something out of the bag that was halfway off her shoulder. She pushed it into Clarke's hands, and he ran his thumb across the raised lettering of a paperback.

"I remembered the book you asked for," she stated. "The boys were happy to let Ellie borrow it."

"Thank you, Cindy," Clarke said. "For everything you're doing, I appreciate it."

She pulled him into another hug. "You're welcome, Jeff."

Cindy disappeared down the hallway, leaving him with the steady rhythm of the machines around Ellie's bed. He tugged the chair up to her bedside, which was becoming his routine over the past several days. With the book balanced in his lap, he reached over to hold Ellie's hand for a few prolonged moments. He did it out of habit, hoping it would do something to help rouse her from her coma. She appeared much healthier than she had been on that first night.

Without the machines that had assisted her in regaining her ability to breathe by herself, it looked as though she was unharmed, aside from the bandage on her forehead. Clarke would give pretty much anything for Ellie to open her eyes and talk. He didn't find himself thinking about what came after that, but right now, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted her to pull herself out of that seemingly endless sleep.

He grinned, his hand still enveloped in hers. "Everyone's asking about you, at the firehouse."

Clarke had been told, once, that she could most likely hear whatever he was saying, so he often spoke aloud.

"If you…Ellie, if you're thinking maybe it's not worth it to pull through this, that maybe…there's no one here waiting for you to wake up…" Clarke let his sentence trail away from him. "Don't think that. Don't give up because you think there's nobody who cares." He laughed, quietly, and shook his head. "Firehouse 51's ready to adopt you, all right? It's okay. If not for yourself, open your eyes for us."

Clarke lowered his head and cleared his throat. He let go of Ellie's hand and picked up the borrowed paperback. It was a well-worn and earmarked copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. Clarke hadn't ever read it until his deployment; someone had a copy lying around and it was a good form of escapism to pass the time. He wasn't sure if Ellie had read it, but the impression he got was that kids in her generation were pretty attached to the story. He'd asked Herrmann the other day if his kids had a copy, and he went into a friendly tangent on how not only did his boys own the entire book series, they also had the movies and various games and merchandise. In any case, it couldn't hurt to read aloud to her.

Clarke flipped to the first page. "_Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…_"


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except Ellie. **

**A/N: I apologize profusely for the wait. I'm in the middle of working on an original novel, so my updates might take some time. Also, I wanted to get this chapter up tonight before the new episode, as I am having all sorts of panicky, angst-ridden thoughts about the fate of Jeff Clarke. (Jeff's Twitter is freaking me out.) If something happens to Clarke tonight or anytime this season, I'll be an inconsolable wreck. I'm basically crying already. Let's all cross our fingers. **

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**Chapter 4**

"Clarke was right, this place_ is_ miserable."

Shay stepped across the threshold, her arm linked with Dawson's. Dawson's free arm was laden with several bouquets of fresh-cut flowers, while Shay kept a large navy blue CFD canvas bag in tow. Both were exhausted from their shift and training, respectively, but knew this trip to the hospital was an important one. Ellie was a week into her stay in the ICU, and Shay and Dawson had finally configured their schedules to allow the visit. Clarke was preoccupied at Molly's with Herrmann and the rest of Squad, so Ellie's room was sparse except for the nurse who glanced up at them from a clipboard.

Dawson elbowed Shay, causing her to screw up her face in a sheepish grimace that could have been the visual representation of the word 'oops.' Shay ducked her head at the nurse, though the young woman didn't appear to be upset with her assessment about the room.

"Sorry," Shay offered.

"I'll be out of your way in a minute," she replied. Her tone was light and friendly, which Shay was thankful for. "You're from the firehouse, right?"

"Yeah," Dawson said. "I'm Gabby Dawson."

"Leslie Shay. I brought Ellie in."

"Nice to meet you both. I've met quite a few of you from Firehouse 51." She finished jotting down notes. "I'm Sara. I've been with Ellie since that first night, and every time someone stops by, I keep my fingers crossed for her."

"How is she?" Shay asked.

"She's starting to heal just fine." Sara capped her pen and tucked it into the clipboard. "She's had a couple good days, her vitals look all right. I'm hoping she'll wake up soon. I'd like to see a happy ending to this story."

"Same here," Dawson answered. "No one's dropped by to identify her yet?"

Sara's face fell. "She remains a mystery. No visitors, except for your firehouse, a couple of cops, and lovely woman named Cindy who bought me coffee the other day."

Shay and Dawson couldn't help but smile at that.

"Do you know who came in from the CPD? I wouldn't ask, otherwise, but my brother's a cop." Dawson asked.

She hadn't had time in her hectic schedule between training and Molly's and everything else to ask Antonio if the case had crossed paths with him, especially since it was now so strongly tied to their firehouse.

Sara looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, I think I did. Dawson, you said, right?"

"Yeah," she replied. "His name's Antonio."

"That was him," Sara confirmed. "He was with another guy. Kind of mean looking, but he was adamant about figuring out what Ellie's situation was before the fire and checking into foster care options in the meantime once she wakes up."

"Do you know if they got anyone to take her in?" Shay questioned.

"Sorry, couldn't tell you." Sara shrugged. "That's all I know." She moved toward the door. "Have a good visit."

"Thanks," Shay and Dawson called after her.

The room was decidedly more silent and bleak once their conversation faded away. There was only the sterilized colors, the beeps and hums of machines standing guard by Ellie's bed, and the distant voices and footsteps down the hall outside. Shay pushed the glass-paneled door shut and dropped the canvas bag onto the lone chair in the corner.

"All right, that's enough of this," she declared. Shay fished her iPod out of her pocket, having fully charged it earlier in the day for this sole purpose.

Dawson laid the bouquets of flowers across the table near the bed where the handmade cards had been arranged.

"What are you doing?"

"I made her a playlist," Shay said. "Maybe some tunes'll get her to wake up. Or maybe she'll completely hate it and wake up just to tell me to turn this crap off. I dunno what teenagers listen to these days, but I like to think I have a decent taste in music."

Dawson laughed. "When you word it like that, you make us sound like old ladies."

"Dude, sixteen was _ages_ ago."

"All right." Dawson held up her hands. "All right, you've got me there. I'd rather not take that nostalgia trip."

Shay moved over to the chair to rummage through the bag. "Oh, _hell no_."

Light, gentle piano music drifted into the room from where Shay's iPod was perched on the windowsill. Dawson went to work settling the flowers into cheap vases they had picked up on the way and filling them with water from a plastic bottle. One bouquet held yellow and bright pink roses, another was an arrangement of multi-colored daisies. The third and largest bouquet was made up of several gigantic sunflowers that Shay had insisted on. Dawson was glad for the choice, since the bright colors seemed to liven up the room almost instantaneously.

"So…" Shay dragged the syllable out, "foster care, huh?"

"If they can't find her family, I guess that's the way to go. Why? Are you…thinking what I think you're thinking?" Dawson fixed her with a cautious look.

Shay had a blanket in her arms—leftover and unused from her and Severide's place. It had some sort of vivid pattern made up of lime greens and hot pinks and blues and purples. In another life, it had been one of Shay's bed comforters.

"No, no…No, I wouldn't…I mean, of all people, I bet Clarke would've…"

"I don't know if he's in the right place for that, Shay."

"Well, maybe he could." Shay draped the blanket across the hospital's regulation white linens and knitted cream colored quilt. "Just temporary."

"We don't know if it would be temporary," Dawson reasoned. "Look, I'm sure if it comes down to it, they'll find her a nice home. She'll be in good care if Antonio has anything to say about it."

Shay nodded, silently, and busied herself with smoothing out the wrinkles in the blanket. Dawson watched her, reading her expression, knowing she hadn't exactly dropped the subject. She'd known Shay long enough to realize when certain things burrowed themselves into her mind and stayed put.

"What?"

"Nothing," Shay replied, moving back to the canvas bag.

"It's not nothing, Shay, come on."

She looked up, one hand curled around the bag's handle. "I dunno, I just…everyone at the house cares about her so much, I kind of wanted to get to know her once she wakes up. I think we all would, ya know? If she gets cozy with some other family, good for her, but…I don't want her to lose touch with us. Or with Clarke, who's practically earned his right to be her parent."

"_Please_," Dawson said. "As if she could. Ellie won't forget about 51, believe me. Even if she goes to a foster family, Clarke sure as hell won't give up his visits. Plus, Chief's got an open-door policy at the house."

"Yeah, you're right."

Shay pulled a few stuffed animals from the depths of the bag. Everyone had chipped in, quietly, for everything they had brought along, and Dawson and Shay had spent an exorbitant amount of time in the hospital's gift shop deliberating over the choices. Dawson rounded the end of the bed, and Shay tossed her a fluffy dog that bore a vague resemblance to Pouch.

"But," Shay continued, placing an orange fox above Ellie's pillow, the animal's fur sticking up at odd angles, "we're absolutely sure firehouse foster care isn't a thing? We could all go through the classes, and hey, the beds aren't too bad. Neither's the food. And, it's probably one of the safest places in the city…"

Dawson put the stuffed animal dog at the opposite end up against the footboard. She shook her head, laughing.

"It's not a terrible idea, but it might not be the best one, either."

"Well, if it hasn't been done before, how do they know it's not in the rule book?"

Shay put a little hedgehog next to the Pouch lookalike.

"It'll be fine, Shay," Dawson reassured her. "Whatever happens, we'll make sure Ellie sticks around. Like I said, I doubt Clarke will want to say goodbye to her anytime soon."

Dawson pulled a huge rolled up paper out of the bag, letting it unfurl onto the floor. It bunched up at her feet, obscuring the letters.

"Here, help me with this."

Shay found the roll of tape and ripped off several lengthy pieces, which she stuck to her pant leg while she assisted Dawson. They each grabbed an end of the gigantic banner and placed it up on the back wall of the room, to the right of Ellie's bed. After some struggling, trying to get the paper straight and even, Shay taped her end. She ran her palm along the banner to smooth it out, and Dawson plucked the pieces of tape from Shay's pants to secure her end.

"It looks really good in here," Shay said, pleased. She stood back next to Dawson to admire the handmade banner, a hand poised at her hip.

"Who did the letters?" Dawson asked.

"Rafferty."

Dawson raised an eyebrow. "_Really_?"

"Mm-hmm, she did a great job. Who knew?"

The message GET WELL SOON was spaced out in meticulous block letters across the length of the paper. Each letter had been colored in a different shade. Below that, FIREHOUSE 51 had been printed in neat, yet flowery handwriting, which Dawson guessed to be Rafferty's, too, since it couldn't have been Shay's. Around the letters of GET WELL SOON, the empty space had been plastered with messages from everyone at the firehouse, punctuated in messy, albeit discernable, signatures.

Shay went around to the side of the bed, her eyes instinctively tracing the numbers and lines on the machines to track Ellie's vitals.

Dawson stayed on the opposite side, doing the same out of habit, though her gaze soon wandered to Ellie's face. She hadn't been there the night they had pulled her from the building, but she had heard the story relayed in differing versions in her spare time spent at the firehouse. Looking down at the young girl, she wondered what had led her here, to be cared for by no one except a bunch of well-meaning strangers. Dawson slid her hand under Ellie's, so their palms were touching. Her thumb curled around Ellie's fingers.

"She looks so much better, all things considered," Shay stated. "It was pretty rough when we brought her in."

They stood in relative silence, the sound of Shay's playlist droning on peacefully, full of placid melodies and calming, lullaby-like voices. The music did enough to overpower the machinery, and while Dawson couldn't place some of the songs, what she did hear was saccharine and airy. All of the colors they'd brought into the room certainly did something to cover up the drab and impersonal surroundings, but Dawson thought the music was a nice touch to lighten the mood.

Two songs had passed when Dawson whispered urgently, "Shay."

Shay was leaning over the guardrail, attempting to control the stuffed animal fox's unruly faux fur.

"What?"

"Shay," Dawson repeated, so Shay finally looked over at her, "Ellie squeezed my hand."

Shay's eyes widened at about the same time her mouth opened in surprise, wondering if she'd heard Dawson right.

"You're sure?" she inquired. "Like, really, _really_ sure?"

"Uh, yeah," Dawson said, her voice calm underneath her excitement. "Her fingers are moving."

Shay pushed the stuffed animal fox aside and took Ellie's other hand. She leaned further forward and watched Ellie's face.

Dawson studied them both, her heart beating wildly in her chest, hoping selfishly that Ellie would wait to open her eyes. She thought Clarke deserved to be here, to be the very first person Ellie saw when she awoke.

"Ellie," Shay called. "Can you hear me?"

She brushed Ellie's hair away from her face. "Can you open your eyes?"

A tense moment passed. And then another. Ellie's eyelids fluttered. Dawson held her breath and could all but feel Shay waiting. There was a flash of blue, quick but not unnoticed, before Ellie's eyes closed again.

Dawson couldn't keep the grin off her face. "I'll get her nurse," she suggested. "You should call Clarke."

/

"Hey," Clarke said softly, Ellie's hand between both of his own, "are you going to open your eyes for me, too? You should see it in here. Shay and Dawson fixed the place up for you."

By the time Shay got the news to him, he was already behind the wheel of his car. He'd made the drive to the hospital from Molly's in near record time, and while he insisted that Shay and Dawson could stay, they ducked out to allow him a visit. Sara, Ellie's nurse, had confirmed what Shay told him in run-on sentence, out-of-breath form over the phone—Ellie had moved her hand in Dawson's grip and her eyes had opened for a very brief moment. He hoped that could only mean good things. Sara had assured him that he would be able to stay overnight, just in case Ellie woke up sometime between now and the morning. A small part of him clung to the belief that this was finally the scrap of sunlight at the end of a very dark tunnel.

Clarke was impressed by Shay and Dawson's handiwork. Somehow, they'd managed to give the ICU room the appearance of a teenage girl's bedroom, at least in some sense. The banner on the wall—which had been kept secret from him, somehow, and he had to commend the firehouse for that—was a particularly wonderful touch. He made a mental note to decipher everyone's handwriting later on.

The flowers Dawson had arranged cut through the odors of hand sanitizers and cleaners that Clarke had difficulty getting out of his nose. Now, he could focus on the aromas of roses and daisies and sunflowers, and it did something to clear his thoughts. At the very least, it made him think of spring, and a Chicago that wasn't weighed down with snow and chilled to the bone. He wondered if Ellie could pick up on them. He wondered what kinds of things she thought of; if her mind was quiet or tangled up in half-made dreams.

Clarke wasn't sure if anything he told her while he sat here broke through her coma. He'd talked until he had fallen asleep a couple of times—stories from the firehouse, stories about his best friend, Gil, groggy truthful statements that tumbled out in the darkness before he could stop them. Clarke had told Ellie once that he thought Gil had helped him find her the night of the fire, but afterward he figured the statement was too stupid said aloud.

It was incredible how much his happiness, his hope depended on this teenage girl opening her eyes.

A lot had happened in a week.

Clarke kept Ellie's hand in between his, which remained clasped together. He had been vigilant since he sat beside her, looking for any sign of the slightest movement. Ellie hadn't looked at him, hadn't said a single word since that wall of debris had rained down on them both. It seemed like a lifetime ago, like Clarke had emerged from that building newly formed, ready to begin another life now that he realized how delicate and ever-changing it was.

He let out a breath. "I've had a terrible past few months," he confessed. "Longer than that, maybe. I don't know. Every step forward, I get pushed three steps back. Something tells me you might be able to understand that."

Ellie's chest rose and fell, evenly.

"I think we both need something to go right for once," Clarke told her. "If you're okay, I'm okay. We had a deal, remember? I'm still with you."

Ellie's eyes were closed, like they had been for a week. He swept his thumb across the back of her palm, which had become a habit now. Clarke hoped, suddenly, that if she dreamed, it wasn't of fire and smoke and bloodied hands. He prayed her dreams weren't anything like his.

He needed her to be all right. Good news was hard to come by.

/

Clarke had fallen asleep sometime around eleven-thirty, after Sara had stopped by to check in on them. He'd slumped awkwardly against the guardrail of the bed, one hand still near Ellie's. Military life had left him with the ability to sleep lightly; a useful skill that carried over into his career as a firefighter.

So, when he felt Ellie's hand reaching against his own, and felt her stir, he roused himself from his own sleep quickly. At first, he thought he was dreaming, but her slight, panicked movements alerted him that he wasn't. Clarke blinked away the fatigue and his vision focused.

Ellie was awake.

She was blinking rapidly, confusion etched into her face and half-stuck in sleep. She didn't lift her head off the pillow, which he couldn't blame her for; every move had to have been made with such effort. He imagined she was in some pain, and probably sore and stiff. Her fingers sought out the sheets beside her, her hand coiling and uncoiling around the starched fabric.

Clarke smiled—the most genuine grin in a week—and settled his hand back on top of hers.

"Hey," he said. His voice was steady, though it was taking nearly all his willpower to do so. "There you are."

Her fingers wrapped around his. Ellie's eyes, at last, fell upon him and stopped their frantic and puzzled searching.

"Jeff."

Her voice was weak, like it had been when they first met, from a week of disuse and assistance from a breathing tube. Clarke thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes, though he couldn't be sure, as his own vision had become blurred.

"You're in the hospital," he said, so she could get her bearings, "in the ICU. It's been about a week since the fire, but you're going to be fine. You're okay."

"You've been here this whole time." Clarke noticed it was a statement, not a question, but it didn't sink in.

"Yeah." He felt warm tears spill down his cheeks and didn't bother to sweep them away. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you I wouldn't, right?"

Ellie squeezed his hand. "Thank you."


End file.
